The Mrs. Claus moment

One of the things I've always found so crazy about this twisted, hypocritical society in which we live is how many ignorant parents claim to be raising their daughters with feminist values yet cling to traditions and stories that uphold the exact opposite of that.

Exhibit A: Santa Claus.

You claim to be raising your daughter as a "strong" woman. You want her to be intelligent, resourceful, confident. Yet as she grows and carves out her place on an unforgiving patriarchal planet she simultaneously writes letters to Santa, she gives a list to Santa, she bakes cookies for Santa, she sits on his decrepit lap at a mall in the midst of its death throes—all so this mysterious, jolly and all-knowing man can bestow upon her yet another material good. I am compelled by academic honesty to comment upon the unmistakable sugar daddy element evident within our culture's most cherished narrative. What is the story of Santa Claus teaching our daughters about money and power? Nothing good, I would venture.

But maybe you're right. Maybe writing letters to a strange man and sitting on the lap of a strange man and leaving out cookies for a strange man isn't having any impact on their worldview whatsoever. Maybe it's all smoke and mirrors. But why take the chance? We can easily rework Santa with a distinctly 21st century fix that should be palatable to everybody and inspiring to girls everywhere: Santa retires, and Mrs. Claus takes the reins.

It makes perfect sense. Mrs. Claus has busted her ass for centuries for little to no credit. Cooking, cleaning, sorting the mail, vacuuming the floors, emptying the fridge not to mention whatever else that disgusting pig almost certainly demands nightly because it's no secret his appetite extends to far more than just cookies and milk. (It's no accident that he's fat, either. The gluttony is the point.) During this period of soul-crushing service, however, we know that Mrs. Claus, like all women, has remained steadfast: studying the game between batches of cinnamon rolls and unwarranted outbursts, observing, learning, waiting for him to to retire (or die).

So let's trot her out there. Let's rewrite the story and get her into the action. She can ride the sleigh, she can shimmy down the chimney, she can eat the cookies. Fuck it, she can kiss mommy if she feels so inclined. Let's show our girls that they, too, can soar across the moon.

Whatever truly positive things you believe about such a custom in your heart, the fact of the matter remains that Christmas represents yet another influential Western tradition with a rich white man at the top. We wear his hats, we sing his praises, we want him to be watching us. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of seeing that fat bastard's face on every snow-covered street corner. It's time for an uncorrupted soul. It's time for Mrs. Claus.

If you have both sons and daughters, and if you are put off by this argument, you are lowkey sexist. We must do better for our daughters, and I mean that. If we're to identify and dismantle the patriarchy we have to confront it wherever it arises and in whichever form, and that includes the big man coming down the chimney.